


Graven Image

by scarecrow_horses



Series: OT3s and Other Buffy'verse Things [6]
Category: Angel: the Series
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-05
Updated: 2020-07-05
Packaged: 2021-03-05 04:55:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,919
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25078720
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scarecrow_horses/pseuds/scarecrow_horses
Summary: Darla's return puts Angel into a bad place, but Gunn can set him straight.
Relationships: Angel/Charles Gunn
Series: OT3s and Other Buffy'verse Things [6]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2072640
Kudos: 3





	Graven Image

**Author's Note:**

> Apparently written in 2011, and set immediately after episode 7 of season 2 - 'Darla'. I have no idea where it was posted, or if it was a gift, or...anything, really.

.

.  
The sun was a cage; insubstantial prison, and Angel paced just beyond its intangible, ravenous bars. Avoiding, as far as he could, the assessing stares of the others. Cordelia, who looked as if she wanted to slap him, and Wesley, who looked as if he'd already been slapped. And Gunn, who just watched with that limpid predator's stare, his dark eyes half-lidded, his arms crossed.

The air still smelled of her. Of Darla. Her scents of violet and cedar, overlaid with a new scent, a scent unfamiliar and unknown. _Human_ scent, of sweat and fear and hate. Of sickness, hidden rot and damp.

Angel put his hands to the back of his neck, rubbing, and the silk, and cotton, and musk-spice-cologne smell of Lindsey was there, as well. Ground into his shirt, rubbed on the bones of his wrists. Texas dust and petulance, desperation and new love.

It made Angel laugh. Darla, ever the whore, gathering admirers wherever she went. Drawing them to her, honey-sweet, and only showing her fangs when the webs were wound tight. Angel wanted to roar; wanted to sink his teeth into something that would _give_ , something that would tear. Something that would bleed out, hot and salt-slick on his tongue. Darla's taste on his lips, still, the heat of her hands phantom butterflies on his ribs. Too much, and not nearly enough.

Gunn made a noise – little grumbling snort of irritation - and Angel stopped dead and looked at him.

"What?"

"You're gonna wear a track in that floor. How 'bout you and me head downstairs and we see if I can beat some of the jitter out of you?"

"Perhaps right now isn't the _best_ time –" Wes started, and Angel shook his head.

"No, he's right. I'm just making you guys uncomfortable. You'll keep – looking, right?"

"Sure, of course, we'll keep looking for the crazy ex-vampire who's now a human dying of some terminal disease who wants you to turn her _back_ into a vampire so you can both destroy the world." The eye-roll was thoughtfully in Cordy's voice, so Angel didn't even have to look at her. "We'll get right on that."

"I just... I've been there, Cordy. Been where she is. She needs help."

"We'll do our best, Angel," Wes said and Angel nodded. Followed Gunn out of the lobby, down the stairs. Down to the scents of damp concrete and aging wood, leather and hemp and oiled steel. He stripped his over-shirt off as he went, tossing it over the stair rail. Kicking his shoes off and flexing his toes against the cool, smooth floor.

Gunn hung his own over shirt on the back of a straight-backed chair; heeled his sneakers off, and then shoved his wadded socks into his shoes. He bounced on the balls of his feet, watching Angel. "You ready for a little humiliation?" Gunn asked, grinning, and Angel felt his own mouth twisting into a reluctant smile.

"You're awfully cocky for a human."

"It's what makes me a winner," Gunn said, and he lunged.

They met with a solid _smack_ of flesh on flesh, hands grappling and clinging, feet planted. Thighs pushing, backs arching. Gunn's hands were warm on Angel's biceps, callused and solid. Angel twisted, and Gunn kicked out, sweeping with his leg. Angel dodged – spun and wrenched and sent Gunn into the heavy bag.

It juddered under his weight, chains clinking, and Gunn leapt back at Angel, this time spinning on one foot, kicking out. Angel blocked him, aimed his own kick that Gunn parried. Back and forth, solid hits and near misses, ducks and dodges and low blows. Gunn had street moves, the instincts of an alley cat, and the will to win that turned anything – chair, empty box, Angel's shirt – into a weapon.

Angel had two centuries and more of living, and Darla's blood-scent in his nose. Lindsey's dark and urgent arousal. It was enough. It ended like they knew it would, with Angel's forearm locked across Gunn's throat, Angel's body pressed tight to Gunn's, hot and slick with sweat, his chest heaving as he panted for air.

"Who's the winner now," Angel rasped, his lips brushing the rim of Gunn's ear.

Gunn laughed, low and a little hoarse, his throat moving under Angel's arm. He pushed his hips back, the taut curve of one buttock rubbing against Angel's groin. "Guess it...depends on what...happens next."

Angel let his arm fall, and took a half-step back, and wasn't prepared when Gunn twisted in his lax grip, turning and pushing Angel back – slamming him into the wall. Angel could feel the faint heat from where Gunn's body had been touching a moment before. "What happens next?"

Gunn's hand was flat to Angel's chest – his other hand curving around the back of Angel's neck. He stood there for a long moment, breathing hard. And then his hand pushed up into Angel's hair, and he jerked Angel forward, their mouths meeting in a hard, crooked kiss. "Guess this does," Gunn muttered, teeth nipping at Angel's lower lip. Angel's own teeth snapped at Gunn's mouth, missing by a hair's breadth, and Gunn laughed – shoved with all his weight, knocking Angel back into the wall hard enough to make a little huff of air come out of his lungs. "Watch the fangs."

"You'll know when they come out," Angel muttered. His hands slid up under Gunn's t-shirt, crumpling the fabric upward. When it was bunched at Gunn's heart, he jerked it apart, pushing the ragged halves back over Gunn's shoulders. Gunn's skin was hot under Angel's fingers; smooth over his belly, except for the line of coarse, curled hair below his navel. Angel's thumb rubbed there, his fingers curving into the hollow of Gunn's hip, and Gunn gave a breathy, rumbling moan.

"Fuck, Angel –"

"She's in my blood. She _made_ me, she...molded me." Gunn's teeth closed over the swell of Angel's jugular, pinching tight, and Angel gasped, his hips jerking forward into Gunn's. "She's all over me... _fuck_.... When I held her...I could hear her dying –"

"She's not here," Gunn whispered, tearing at the fly of Angel's trousers, button and zip parting under his shaking hand. He pushed the cotton wide, his hand sliding down with familiar eagerness, to curl around Angel's cock. His tongue pressed flat to Angel's throat, and he licked upward, biting at the point of Angel's jaw. Finding Angel's lips with his teeth again, and then with his tongue, pushing past them to press deep inside.

Angel clawed at Gunn's jeans, getting them open; shoving both hands down the back and yanking Gunn close, fingers sinking into taut muscle. Bruising the flesh, and Gunn bucked into him, his hand crushed to stillness between their bodies, his cock rubbing along Angel's belly. "Fuck, Gunn...I want –"

"Want me in you? Want me to fuck you? Get so deep inside, you won't be able to think of anything but me...anyone...." Fingers knotting in Angel's hair, sharp pricks he could feel all along his scalp. Gunn twisted, pulled his head back, and went for his throat again. Angel shoved at Gunn's jeans, pushing the denim down until they were pressed, naked hip to naked hip, cocks bumping. Angel put his hand around both, foreskins sliding, shimmer of pre come slicking across both heads, pungent salt-musk smell in his nostrils.

Good smell of clean sweat and tobacco, gun oil and leather. He slid his other hand down further, fingertip brushing over Gunn's opening, and Gunn ground against him, breaking the kiss so he could pant in lungfuls of air. Gunn's hand joined Angel's, squeezing and stroking, thumb rubbing over both heads, fingers dipping down to cup Angel's balls and then his own.

Gunn's hipbone was sharp and hard under Angel's wrist, curved like the wing of a bird. In the amber dimness of the basement his skin was near-ebony, oiled with sweat. Angel lowered his head so he could put his mouth on Gunn's collarbone – on his sternum. Licking from one side to the other, moaning softly when Gunn's nails raked over his back. Gunn pushed Angel's a-line up around his armpits, and scored across his nipple.

"Lindsey, little fucker...he wants her, _God_ , he'd let her turn him...panting after her...wants whatever she's touched –"

"Just a little junkyard dog, fuck him –" Gunn arched, hips grinding. He let his head fall back as they jacked each other harder, faster. Fingers overlapping, and friction making it burn – sweat in Angel's mouth and Gunn's eyes. Angel put his mouth on Gunn's throat, and scraped with his teeth – sucked desperately, willing the blood to rise, the skin to break. "Do it, do it, fucker, just take it – _Angel_ –"

Angel let it come; let the demon rise, and let his fangs sink in. Under him – in his arms – Gunn's body went stiff, hips jerking helplessly as he came. Gunn's blood was like whiskey; full of fire, full of heat. Full of smoke and salt and _life_ and Angel groaned around his mouthful of flesh, fingers slippery with Gunn's come, his own body arching and shaking as orgasm swept over him.

Gunn broke away first, his hand dropping to his side, his cock softening in their tangled grip. Angel shuddered, human again; licked once more over the punctures he'd made, gathering the last of Gunn's blood onto his tongue. He lifted his head, and Gunn took a step back – pushed his hand against Angel's belly and wiped, smearing their come upward. 

"Smell like me now. Taste like me – got me in your veins. Not her."

"Not her," Angel echoed. He reached out and traced the scar that curved under Gunn's right pectoral. Raised and dark, shiny, thick under his fingertips. "First fight with a vamp."

"First fight with a vamp," Gunn agreed. He looked down at the scar – at Angel's finger, pressing into it. "Reminds me keep my eyes open and my head on straight."

"Yeah...." Angel let his hand drop. He pulled his a-line off, and absently wiped at himself, still staring. Gunn picked up the tatters of his own t-shirt and did the same, little grin on his face. "Maybe that's.... Maybe that's why it gets to me, you know? Why I can't seem to think around her. All the times she hurt me, all the times she left me in shreds.... I don't have a single scar. Nothing to remember her by. Makes me think she can't hurt me."

Gunn tossed the ruined t-shirt aside, hitched his jeans up and fastened them, making a little face. "She can't, man." Gunn cupped Angel's jaw in his hand – let his thumb rub gently at Angel's lower lip. Angel pressed into the touch; into the heat of it. Gaze never leaving Gunn's, as Gunn's fingers stroked through the hair at the back of Angel's neck. Angel wanted to close his eyes and never move – wanted to sink into the rough caress. Lean his head on Gunn's shoulder, and forget everything. Gunn leaned close, their foreheads touching, his other hand on Angel's hip, and Angel let his eyes close. Safe in the darkness, nothing but the rushing thump of Gunn's heart, the soft hush of his breathing.

"Whatever she does, it doesn't mean a thing. What you are...you made yourself. Came through the fire and got stronger for it. Strong enough to help her; strong enough to save her."

"She doesn't want to be saved, Gunn. Sometimes...I don't."

"It's too late for that, Irish. You already are."


End file.
